


Tacet: Evening

by Marguerite



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s03e22 Posse Comitatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-16
Updated: 2009-03-16
Packaged: 2019-05-30 17:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15101294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marguerite/pseuds/Marguerite
Summary: "A President cannot confess. A President cannot be shriven. This mortal sin he will carry to his grave."





	Tacet: Evening

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

TACET IV: EVENING

Classification: "Posse Comitatus" post-ep, Bartlet POV.  
Summary: "A President cannot confess. A President cannot be shriven. This mortal sin he will carry to his grave."

 

***  
Tacet IV: Evening  
***

_Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna._

Of course he mumbles to himself as he paces the Oval Office. And of course he does it in Latin, for he is not just the President, but Josiah Bartlet. Damn it, he is Josiah Bartlet.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees CJ on the muted television as she gives the late-afternoon briefing. It's scarcely been an hour since she returned from Simon's funeral and she's leaning heavily on the podium, her lackluster eyes never once glancing up into the camera.

_Culpa rubet vultus meus, supplicanti parce Deus._

He should've sent her home. She looks like hell up there, trying to fend off questions about Shareef's death and the search for a plane no one is ever going to find. There won't be a body to bury, CJ. That's not how these things shake out.

The cigarette he's been holding too tightly snaps in the middle, spilling tobacco all over the royal blue carpet. He groans, takes out his handkerchief, and gathers up the mess. Deposits it in the planter behind his desk. His sin is hidden.

Charlie announces Toby, who shuffles in and hands the President a copy of some remarks for a fundraiser this weekend. Bartlet gives the document a cursory glance, hardly bothering to put his glasses on because he knows anything Sam and Toby have written will be magnificent. It's fine, he says, not looking into Toby's dark eyes because he knows Toby is his conscience, the one staffer who's pondered the events of the last two days and knows what really happened. Toby has learned his lesson about speaking his mind. He'll never mention what he's surmised. Nonetheless, there will always be something in his demeanor, something that says he will never feel the same way about his President again. And that hurts Bartlet more than he could have imagined.

_Dies irae, dies illa, calamitatis et miseriae._

The President clears his throat, then asks how CJ had held up at the funeral. Toby responds that she's not doing well, that she's straining to hold it all inside, that perhaps...and here he stops, rubbing his beard with his thumb. 

Perhaps what? Bartlet asks with a raised eyebrow.

Toby begs his pardon, but rumor has it that the President is going to meet with a priest, his old friend Father Kavenaugh, at a church not too far from here. Could CJ...she might feel better if...

Relieved, Bartlet nods his assent and goes with Toby into the hive of offices. People stand as he passes, nodding, murmuring greetings that he doesn't hear past the guilty roar of blood in his ears. CJ is lying down on the couch with a wet towel over her eyes when they knock briskly. Go away, Toby, CJ groans, then she hears the President murmur her name and she jumps to her feet. Her face is as gray as her dress.

I'm going to church, CJ. He extends his hand, takes hers, clasps it. Come with me.

_Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini._

It's a short, quiet trip. There are some curious onlookers near the church, kept at bay by a police cordon and Secret Service agents. Ron Butterfield exits the limousine first. He takes his time, doubtless ensuring that there are enough agents to surround the Presidential party. The agents are one man short today. One good man.

The interior of the church is modest, gray stone and hand-hewn wood, with a single kaleidoscopic window telling the ageless story of death and redemption. Toby hangs back by the heavy bronze door at the back of the sanctuary. It's not my...place, he explains to the President, and for a moment it's not about either of them but about CJ, who clumsily blesses herself and moves toward the altar. Mary's gentle, patient marble face seems to smile down on her as CJ goes to a table full of candles. She puts money in a box, picks up a candle, and lights it in front of the statue of a male saint.

Bartlet senses Toby's confusion. Saint Joseph, he explains. Patron of law enforcement officers and those who die unexpectedly. He's waiting for Toby to make a remark about who the patron saint might be for Muslims who die unexpectedly. He almost hopes for it. But Toby's mind is on CJ.

Her hair's fallen in front of her face and she doesn't tuck it behind her ears, just stays there, kneeling, rocking slightly back and forth with her fingertips over her eyes. What do you call it, Toby? Davening? Toby nods. Not so different, is it?

No, sir. Grief is without...denomination.

_Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis._

Thomas Kavanaugh enters the chapel from a side door. Good evening, Mr. President, he murmurs, and they embrace. They look in the direction of the confessional. Bartlet shakes his head. I can't. I'm sorry, Tom, I shouldn't have dragged you all the way out here. I absolutely cannot tell you what has happened.

The priest says that the confessional is sacred, but Bartlet knows better. He can never, ever, confess this to anyone. Leo knows, and doesn't believe it's a sin. Toby has guessed, and knows it is.

I...can't.

The two men sit down together on the pew farthest from where CJ is praying. Bartlet keeps his head lowered, feeling unworthy of the strong, kindly hand squeezing his shoulder. Of the unconditional love, the paternal forgiveness.

He has fought against the death penalty all his life. If Simon Donovan's killer is caught, Bartlet will want him spared. He will have to look at the emptiness in CJ's eyes for ages to come, but this man, even if tried and convicted, must not die at the hand of the State. Yet he has ordered the execution of a man, not tried, not convicted, at the hand of that same State. And he is the State: judge, jury, and executioner.

_Judex ergo cum sedebit, quidquid latet, apparebit._

Father Kavenaugh asks, gently, what he can do to help.

Bartlet looks toward the back of the chapel. At Ron, who looks as if he hasn't slept in two days. At Toby, who doesn't meet his eyes. And suddenly, inexorably, he understands. He can't be helped. A President cannot confess. A President cannot be shriven. This mortal sin he will carry to his grave.

There's nothing anyone can do for him. But he can do this one thing, this one small thing, even though it won't be enough. He gets up and brings his old friend to CJ's side. Introduces them. Walks away to take his place beside Toby, to stand guard. A secret service, indeed.

Father Kavenaugh takes CJ's hand in his as she rises to greet him. He is a gentle man, a good man. He will feel her pain in the trembling hand he smooths between his palms, will understand her confusion and her angry sorrow. May I pray with you, my child? CJ turns around, and for the first time Bartlet sees tears in those enormous eyes. But she's not looking for him, although she does acknowledge him with a tremulous smile, and her expression doesn't relax until she sees Toby, who watches her in silence with his hands over his heart.

As CJ's tears come at last she kneels with the priest to pray for Simon's soul, now at rest, and for her own, still locked in the torment of new affliction. She kneels, weeping, to pray for lost possibilities, for what could have been, and for her friends. For Josh, who has taken this news so hard for reasons they can only begin to fathom, and for steadfast, forthright Sam. For Toby. For Toby. For Toby, and for them all. Now and in the hour, to deliver them from everlasting death. Even the one who deserves it least. For them all, she will whisper it through trembling lips. 

_Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna._

***  
END  
***

This series would have been four blank sheets of virtual paper had it not been for Ria's insight, humor, and dedication to finding just the right way to make these men and women have their say without saying anything. It's all about you, Ria.

Translations for the Latin are by Byword via the libretto to Verdi's Requiem.

Feedback would be welcome.  
Back to West Wing.


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